


Braid

by goodbyebluesky



Series: The days that have been [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Cuddly times, F/M, Fluff, Hair Braiding, Lazy Mornings, This pairing is seriously underrated, in my opinion anyways
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-26
Updated: 2014-06-26
Packaged: 2018-02-06 08:08:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1850725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goodbyebluesky/pseuds/goodbyebluesky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Daenerys braids her husband's hair; and he finds a way to return the gesture.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Braid

**Author's Note:**

> I was inspired by the Braid scene between Drogo and Dany in Season 1; and wrote my own. Set in between 1x07 and 1x08. One-shot.

_“A Dothrakhan’s hair is the symbol of his dominance; the sign and indication of his stature within his Khalasar. When a Dothrakhan loses a battle, the victor cuts off his braid so they entire world may know their shame.”_

_“ **Khal Drogo has never had his braid cut off.**_ ”

  
Daenerys’ fingers combed through the wet tresses of her husband’s hair, before dropping them in the clay bowl filled with tepid water standing by the feet of her crossed legs. It is morning, and the people of the _Khalasar_ are waking up as the sun-ship stars to slowly sail across the sky. Today, the Khalasar is moving onwards, crossing the Dothraki Sea in search for villages to plunder and slaves to take.

The horsehair fabric of her tent is allowing in the early-morning sunlight; dew drops cling to the fabrics. She can hear the murmurs of men and woman as they wake and the birdsong of the steppe-birds; not yet smothered by the sound of the _Khalasar._

The night was cool and the morning is frosty. Winter is coming, but Daenerys is not concerned much. Here, across the narrow sea and by the side of one of the infamous Dothraki _Khals,_ nothing can hurt her.

She is the last dragon now. Viserys’ death has left her in multiple shades of relief. The constant burden and tension between them ebbed away the moment his head crashed to the ground; burnt beyond recognition by the molten gold her horse-lord husband poured onto his head. _A golden crown for a king._

Daenerys thinks it a fitting end. Now that he is gone, she feels freer and more able to do as she pleases without the constant fear of her brother finding out about it. Ever since marrying Drogo; his reins on her have been loose, but now that he is dead she is free.

Drogo seems to sense her train of thought, and he raises a hand; cupping it gently to her cheek. Her eyes flash to his as she looks down; they’ve wandered to the horizon but need no guidance to find his again. Light locks onto dark and Daenerys feels the boundaries on the edges of her vision melt away until she can see only him.

 _“Moon of my life.”_ He says. Daenerys slots her hand over her husband’s, the water seeping in between her fingers and his as she entwines them together. The tones of their skin don’t match; they never have. And although Daenerys’ skin has tanned and calloused from the heat of the sun and the hard work; Drogo’s skin is darker and tougher and so much stronger than hers.

He has become the pillar of her strength; without him she is nothing. His arms are protective shields around her when he hugs her to him; his body dwarfs hers but she feels safe and warm when he holds her.

She smiles, a tender curve to her lips, echoed by her aching heart. Drogo’s thumb caresses her jaw. “ _You are troubled.”_ He says, his rough voice uncharacteristically soft. Daenerys gently shakes her head and drops Drogo’s hand back beside him. “ _Not anymore.”_ She replies, reaching out and gently grasping the strands of his wet hair and lifting them out of the bowl. With gentle hands, she combs them apart with her fingers and scrubs them with her fingertips.

She continues this process with the rest of his long hair; washing the strands individually and smiling occasionally when the sounds of her husband’s murmurs of assent and satisfaction reach her ears. When she has finished washing his hair, she puts a gentle hand against Drogo’s warm back, and he sits up.

Daenerys puts the bowl aside and shuffles forward. Starting at the top of his head; she starts to gather hair from the sides of his head and braids it in a single braid down his head. The wet strands slip through her fingers like water and she easily braids the hair; fingers deftly weaving the hair in and out of the braid.

“ _Viserys was no dragon,”_ She tells him, pulling the braid tightly together. “ _Fire cannot kill a dragon.”_ Drogo shifts slightly. This time, he looks at her as far as his half-braided hair allows him. “ _Even dragons bow before the Great Stallion.”_ He says, full of conviction. Daenerys smiles at him over his shoulder, leaning forward and kissing the skin on his shoulder blade.

“ _And the Great Stallion bows to His Khaleesi.”_ Daenerys remarks. Drogo returns her smile and tilts his head. His lips leave a warm mark on Daenerys’ forehead, and fill her with love from top to bottom. Her heart lurches in her chest. He presses his forehead against hers; the skin warm and calming. Daenerys feels a comforting heat sweep through her; starting where her skin touches her husband’s and moving down.

Drogo hums a low note; emanating from deep within his chest. Daenerys smiles and kisses his lips as her fingers weave the final plaits into completion. She pulls her forehead away from his and stares deep into his eyes. Her heart is peaceful; a feeling so gentle it’s nearly tangible in the silent air.

She strokes the finished braid appreciatively and sets to work in weaving the gold rings, strips of cloth, small bells and other ornaments into the dark hair of his braid.

Drogo is smiling over his shoulder as Daenerys works; and listens to her as she curses occasionally when her fine white hair falls in front of her face.  When she has finally finished her horse-lord husband’s hair, she sits back and rubs her lower back, kneading the skin to relieve tension that has accumulated there. When she raises her head; Drogo has turned around and is facing her.

His face is devoid of emotion, but Daenerys knows him well enough that she takes one look in his eyes and smiles. They’re soft when they meet hers. Drogo’s hands reach out and finger the strands of her hair between thumb and forefinger. “Would you like to braid it?” She asks, surprised when she hears her own voice breaking the silence in two.

She spots a glint in Drogo’s eyes as he takes her by the hand and leads her over to the bed, lying her down on her belly. As first, she thinks he’s going to take her, but realises as he sits down beside her and rubs her shoulders that he is thinking something far from it. She tries to turn herself around to look at him, but a large and warm hand in between her shoulder blades keep her lying down.

She lets it happen, and she surrenders herself to his strong hands as they knead the muscles in her shoulders. She feels a warm haze settle over her as the sun-ship sails further across the sky; warming up the air in the tent. She’s near fast asleep by the time Drogo’s hands leave her back and start to gently pull on the tresses of her hair.

Her eyes lazily flick open to survey what’s going on. Her mouth is dry and she can’t seem to form the words she wants to say; but as her husband’s gentle hands tug at the strands of her hair she finds that she actually couldn’t care less.

The hands that usually break bone and have the capability to rip out tongues are so gentle with her; handling her hair like the finest horse-hair fabric. She loves this feeling, and surrenders herself to it completely. All awareness that was piqued has once again fled form her brain and sleep threatens to claim her.

All she feels and can care to feel is the warm sunlight shining through the flaps of the tent and onto her skin, and her husband’s warm and gentle hands roving through her hair, and the surprising softness of his calloused fingers caressing her head and neck.

She only realises what he’s doing as soon as his hands start to move down her neck; fingers occasionally brushing against her skin. She blinks lazily. A wave of feeling crushes her chest and floods her with warmth. Finally, Drogo’s hands leave her hair and Daenerys feels him sit back. He fingers her now-braided hair in his hands; smiling appreciatively at his completed work.

Her hair has been braided like his; with small strips of blue and jade suede fabric interwoven with her light-blonde tresses. Daenerys even feels small bone beads sliding in between her fingers when she feels the braid her husband has created; unaware he was capable of such finesse and precision.

She smiles as she turns around to prop herself upright, crossing her legs and looking at her husband when she rights herself into a sitting position. She leans back on her arms; eyes firmly locked onto his. She’s baiting him with her eyes; a daring glint inviting him to come forward. Drogo’s eyes crinkle as he smiles. Next thing, he leans forward onto his knees and cups her neck to kiss her.

Daenerys feels him pull away and bares her teeth in a smile when she opens her eyes; savouring the closeness between them and the hand on her neck that’s still keeping him connected to her. She leans forward of her own accord; slotting her lips to his in a chaste but very obvious display of affection. Their kiss lasts longer this time; because one of her hands finds his jaw and aligns to it. Her thumb swirls over his strong jawline; pressing into the skin possessively.

She pulls away this time; watching in fascination as his eyes open slowly. The hand moves from her neck and slots over hers to hold it. In one fluid motion, he stands up and pulls her with him. Whilst keeping her eyes locked onto his, he raises her hand and presses his lips against the knuckles; a very uncharacteristic thing for a Dothraki to do. She surmises that he must have seen Ser Jorah do it.

Nevertheless, she smiles. “ _Come, my Khaleesi,”_ He says, hair from his beard tickling her fingers. _“Let us remind the Lambs to fear The Great Stallion and his Dothraki.”_ He inclines his head to her and releases her hand; his breeches stirring up dust as he crosses the tent in two strides.

He stops just before the threshold; looking to the side. A cunning smile curves his lips upwards. _“And his Khaleesi.”_ He says; before leaving the tent. Daenerys watches him go and looks at the sun; it’s already halfway across the sky.

A smile splits her face in two as she follows after her husband. Something alike to fire stirs in her stomach. _She is ready._ Her braided hair clicks and shifts behind her. 


End file.
